Page 4 of The Tiger in the Sack

“You can and should. I’m gonna have to climb over you. This is going to feel weird,” I said.

“It already feels weird. There’s a man with a cat in his jacket, who may or may not be a serial killer straddling me, in my tree.”

“I think you watch too much true crime and it’s a public tree.”

“It’s the tree outside the building where I live, in the true crime documentary about my murder by a faceless motorcycle man with a faceless motorcycle cat, they will call it my tree.”

“Okay, it’s your tree.”

She made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh and I worked the branch up and over, slow, getting the angle right so I didn’t tear anything. The shirt caught, she sucked in a breath, I adjusted, lifting instead of pulling, and the fabric came free.

She lurched forward and we both heard the branch crack.

Pure reflex. My arm hooked around her before the thought finished. Forearm across her front, pulling her against me, before she could fall. Her hands grabbed my sleeve, hugging us both like a bear.

The branch she’d been holding said enough was enough and dropped somewhere onto the ground below us.

We hung out there on the branch my feet were planted on for a second.

Her back against my chest. One of hands bracing us both against the trunk, the other wrapped around her like she was mine. Tig’s head emerged from my collar to observe this development.

She was breathing fast.

Not to mention me.

“I’ve got you,” I said.

“I noticed.” She took a shaky breath, and I felt every bit of her chest expanding and then releasing the air. “Thank you.”

She didn’t let go of my sleeve right away. I was content to stay right here.

“Since we didn’t die just now, can we get the hell out of this tree?”

We came down branch by branch after that, slower than I would have alone. I went first and talked her down. She was keeping her eyes fixed on the bark two inches in front of her face. Not looking down. Smart.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

She paused. “What?”

“You’re thinking about the drop, falling. Talk to me instead.” I found the next foothold, tested it, and glanced up at her. “Name. Go.”

Another pause, shorter. She moved her left foot to where I’d pointed. “Clover.”

Clover.

Her name landed like a perfect spiral right to my brain.

“Clover what?” Why did those two words sound like a come on?

“Freeman.” She found the next branch. Steadier now. “Are you trying to distract me by flirting?”

“Is it working?”

“...Yes. I hate that it’s working.”

“Clover Freeman.” I kept my voice even, kept her moving. “That’s a great name.”

“I like it.” A breath. Almost dry. “Are you gonna tell me yours?”